Bobby and TK have found themselves confronting demons in hell en route to Snow Job.

Can they confront their own demons?

CONDEMNATION

The seventh circle of Hell. The dismal landscape of the damned seems to stretch forever, the sounds of pained moans and anguished yelps fill the air, along with the sounds of a heated battle. Grunts, groans, and the dulled smacks of blows being levied against flesh and bone, and the guttural sounds of demons falling only grow as we begin to see the source of the fracas.

Bobby Bourbon picks up a demon, some foul looking creature with cloven hooves and horns with nightmarish semi-human features, and drives its head down into the stone, bowing it's back and twisting it's familiar if monstrous physiology. Not far away, Thunder Knuckles is unleashing a fury of punches at one of the denizens of Hell, sending it into a pool of some bubbling liquid.

There's no end to them!

I know!

So what do we do?

Keep fighting!

Bobby rushes a demon head on, tackling it to the ground. TK kicks another in the gut, doubling it over. As he does, Bobby mounts the monstrosity he just took down and grips its horns as it screeches. TK takes the demon he just kicked by the head and rams it into a nearby boulder. Bobby rips the demon's head open by the horns, like someone splitting a wishbone. TK throws another kick against the skull of the beast he's fighting, splattering it against the boulder. As violently as they fight, with the utmost ferocity, it seems for naught, as even more demonic creatures arrive in no time to confront Them No Good Bastards.

Fuck!

I know, dude, but, shit, what else can we do?

I don't fucking know!

This is insane!

Bourbon and TK stand back up and square their shoulders, ready to take on the demonic horde. However, the numbers game is too great. About a dozen demons rush them, and roughly hoist them up.

Put me the fuck down!

I don't think they're going to listen, bud.

Well, what the fuck are we supposed to do!

Put him the fuck down!

TK rolls his eyes and looks at Bobby. Bobby glances at TK, both struck with terror at what is transpiring.

They didn't listen to you either!

Well, shit, where are you taking us!

The demons all squeal and growl, approaching a pit. Bobby and TK, shouting and struggling all the way, try to get out of the grips of the creatures in vain.

No!

NOOOOOO!

In short order, both men are tossed into the pit.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Darkness.

Silence.

A door opens casting light into the room. Bobby Bourbon walks in and flips a switch. Spread out in front of him is a table covered with food. Doughnuts, hot dogs, a ham, a turkey, lobsters, crabs, potatoes, cakes, pies, a smorgasbord laid out in front of him. He sits at the table. An intercom blares from overhead.

"You are useless."

Bobby sits at the table.

"What you do doesn't matter, and never will."

Bobby takes a napkin and unfolds it, placing it in his lap. He picks up a fork and a knife.

"You are useless."

Bobby reaches out at the table and starts serving himself up a plate of all the assorted foods in front of him.

"What you do doesn't matter, and never will."

Bobby slings a large spoonful of mashed potatoes onto his plate.

"You are useless."

Bobby reaches out and stacks a doughnut onto his plate.

"What you do doesn't matter and never will."

Bobby puts two hot dogs on his plate.

"You are a consumer, unspecial, and have no value."

Bobby takes a slice of ham.

"People are here to consume, they are the pismire, feeble."

Bobby sets the plate in front of him.

"You are useless."

Bobby looks down at the plate of food. It's all now rotted, covered with maggots and foul.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The crowded casino thrums, the buzz of electricity underlying all the bells, buzzers, and people. Croupiers crying out here and there. Thunder Knuckles stands at a roulette table, a stack of chips in front of him. He slides the stack onto black.

"All bets in!"

The man at the wheel drops the small ball into the spinning wheel. TK looks on eagerly as the ball bounces and eventually lands on 0.

"Zero!"

The table groans as nobody bet on 0, but the croupier slides all the chips in the direction of Thunder Knuckles. He looks somewhat confused.

"Big money for the big loser!"

TK shrugs as the rest of the people at the table all disperse, contented and happy, leaving TK all alone. TK slides the stack of chips onto red. A smattering of new faces show up. Gaunt. Defeated, saddened, and desolate faces arrive, placing meager bets here and there. The croupier spins the wheel and drops the ball again. It lands on 0 again.

"Zero!"

The rest of the crowd, having lost their money, all seem rejuvenated, an air of youth returning to them. TK, on the other hand, seems to have taken on every bit of wear and tear they had, gray hairs appearing throughout his scalp and beard, age lines deepening across his brow. Another group of weary and worn looking souls approach the table.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bobby Bourbon belches. He's still seated at the veritable buffet set in front of him, the plate of rotten food in front of him gone. He serves himself another plate, and as soon as he is finished, the food is rotten.

"You can't stand up for the people, you must consume."

Bourbon's sorrow is telltale as he digs in, his fork scooping something blackened and moldy, covered with maggots. He puts the vile morsel into his mouth and chews.

"You are useless."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Thunder Knuckles is hunched, gaunt, and decrepit at this point. Another refreshed pack of souls leave the table, having nothing as a pile of chips in front of him is piled so high he can barely move them onto a spot on the roulette table. They scatter, landing hither dither along the green felt on all sorts of spots. Numbers. Both colors. His bets thoroughly hedged, a chip marked everywhere on the table save on 0. A new pack of beleaguered people arrive at the table, making their meager wages.

"All bets are in!"

The croupier grins at TK as he spins the wheel again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"You are here to consume."

Bourbon vomits to his side, the disgusting matter he's been shoveling into his gullet having taken it's toll. He lifts his plate and looks to serve himself again.

"The people can't rely on you anymore."

Bourbon looks disgusted. He throws the plate on the floor.

Fuck you.

"Oh?"

The plate leaps back onto the table, and Bourbon's mouth is thrust open as food starts to animate from the table, rushing into it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

TK is skeletal at this point, his eyes sunken and dark, his hair wispy and thinned, seated on a mountain of chips. He's made more money here than anyone else but has nothing to show for it. Another grouping of people, all looking far more verile and healthful than TK at this point, placing small bets. TK takes a single chip, and with a snap the weight of it breaks his wrist. He shudders as he places it on 0.

"All bets are in!"

The croupier spins the wheel. The sheen of the roulette ball glistens, bringing the only illumination to TK's features at this point. It lands on 23. The bets all get shoveled to TK as the group leaves, better than ever. TK reaches up with his one good hand left and touches his mouth, pulling a tooth from it. A group approaches and begins to bet. TK looks wearily at the croupier.

"Sir, we're waiting for you."

Fuck you.

"Oh?"

A cocktail waitress approaches and winks at TK, then at the croupier. She starts shoveling chips onto the table for him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bourbon is corpulent and bloated at this point, the endless stream of food forcing itself down his throat.

"The people are consumers and worthless."

Having had enough, Bobby reaches forward and flips the buffet table. He stands up and picks the chair up, destroying the intercom speaker with it with a fling. He turns and waddles back out of the door...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The roulette wheel spins, and with all his strength, the corpse-like TK stops it. The ball skips from its rotation and away from the table. He hobbles away from the table as quickly as he can while the people at the table yell at him, knocking aside his pile of chips as he does. He turns and enters a door...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Ladies and Gentlemen, behold!"

A voice comes from nowhere in particular as a spotlight shines, showing a cinderblock wall. Bobby Bourbon and Thunder Knuckles, wearing clown make-up and dressed just as festively, are chained to it. Canned laughter echoes as the chains fall. Both men look at each other. Bourbon opens his mouth to speak, but only the sounds of a trombone are heard, sounding just like an adult from a Peanuts cartoon. TK looks back at him confusedly and speaks, but only the sounds of a violin are heard. Without explanation, bowling pins are lobbed in their direction, and they begin to juggle them between each other as the canned laughter builds and builds.

Wah wah waaaah wah waaaah wah.

Wee wee weeee.

Waah wah.

Weeeee.

Both men hold their bowling pins. The canned laughter stops.

"Folks, it looks like these two can't work together!"

Bourbon and TK start hurling the bowling pins at the camera. The sound of glass shattering is heard as they're suddenly standing in the familiar hellscape they began in, looking as they aught.

What the fuck?

Bourbon rubs his temples.

We're in hell, we're being punished.

For what?

For, well, being shitty humans, I guess.

TK pauses. He turns and looks at Bobby.

We shouldn't be here.

Maybe we should?

TK turns to Bobby and grips the strap to his singlet.

No, fuck that. We shouldn't. We have a championship to win, and we came here to do something, don't you remember that?

No, I don't!

Well, maybe we shouldn't work together then!

Maybe!

A hoard of demons form a circle around Bobby and TK, who both look like they're going to kill each other. The demonic forces all hoot and holler, egging both men on. Bourbon gives pause, as does TK, as they both look around.

Wait.

Yeah.

The demons start booing. As they do, a low booming sound is heard. Then another. Then another. A geyser of flame shoots from the darkness, illuminating it's source. A demon, almost seven times the size of both Bourbon and TK combined, is seen. The ring of demons all make way.

The fuck?

It's here to fuck us up.

Bobby looks at TK.

Not if we fuck it up first.

How?

Bobby shakes his head briefly.

I don't know, but we gotta have hope.

Hope? We need a miracle!

Then hope for one.

Both Bourbon and TK charge the massive monster, ready to combat it with every ounce of their soul. It, being massive, catches each in either hand.

That was a bad idea!

I know!

Well, what now?

I dunno!

The creature raises its fists to its head and gets a better look at Them No Good Bastards, roaring as it does. Smoke billows from its nostrils, which are flat against it's face. Bobby and TK glance at each other, and nod. Each man rears back and socks the horrible thing in an eye. It drops them to the ground and roars in pain as it does. Bobby and TK then each grab ahold of one of its legs, and in tandem hoist it, causing it to crash to the rocky ground. TK picks up a nearby rock and starts to bash a foot as Bobby rushes and hoists a large stalagmite, ripping it from the ground. The beast bellows as TK shatters its ankle with stone after stone, and Bobby takes the stalagmite and impales the demon in the neck. A long hollow sound of pain comes from it, and it stops moving, slumped on the ground. Bobby and TK step back, stumble towards each other, and give each other a fist bump.

Fuck yeah!

Hyep.

The demonic roars of hell echo with a thousand voices.

Damn it.

Dude, we're in a pickle.

No, we're in Hell.

You know what I mean.

TK smirks.

Yeah, but you know what they say, go to Heaven for the weather and Hell for the company.

Bobby gives a quick guffaw.

Good outlook.

Both men turn, and an army of demons is headed towards them.

Well, I guess we can at least go down swinging.

Nice knowing you, Mr. Bourbon.

It's been a pleasure, Mr. Knuckles.

As the demons descend on T.N.G.B., both men prepare to make their stand. When all seems completely lost, however, a new sound pierces the air.

Scat. Not the poop stuff, but old school jazz singing.

The dulcet tones of some singer are heard as the demons look on in awe. Bobby and TK turn, and see Cab Calloway.



With golden wings and a spectacular white tuxedo, the angelic Calloway continues to sing while a divine big band is behind him, playing the sounds of juke joints from nearly a century ago. Bobby and TK look at each other confusedly.

Is he with you?

I, uh, no!

Cab lands on the rocky surface next to Bourbon and TK, and his appearance drastically changes.



Boys, you're both too good for this place!

Thanks!

Well, what do we do?

Cab smiles and touches both Bourbon and TK. Suddenly, their appearance changes as well!



Bobby and TK both look shocked as they see each other. They then turn and watch as the demonic horde bolts in the opposite direction.

Damn!

Yeah!

Cab comes up and embraces both of them.



You boys finish your shit around here, and then go on home. You both have a bunch of living people to impress and help. The man upstairs has plans for you.

Wait, does that mean...

Bobby taps TK's shoulder.

We're on a mission from God.

TK purses his lips and nods in consideration. In short order, they no longer look like the Blues Brothers and return to their normal form. Cab Calloway and his band disappear in a puff of blue smoke. Both TK and Bourbon sniff the air then chuckle.

That smells like some good shit!

Top shelf!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Back in the motel room, the college dudes looking to score roofies are all snugly tied up and sitting on beds, two per queen sized mattress.

Well, looks like I'm back to introduce all the talking points again. Marf, Lycanna, Corey, Doc, it's been an honor and a pleasure being so focal for y'all and giving you guys something to work with on the microphone, and frankly, nobody knows where any of you would be without us, Them No Good Bastards, besides putting on a lame duck match.

Corey being pedantic and sweating every semantic of all of my antics may be driving some of you frantic.

Doc being sardonic while claiming to be iconic living in the past and far from laconic is also far from euphonic.

Lycanna is sultry and lascivious, unawares and lixivious, intentions all bivious but the woman's oblivious.

Marf, well, Marf needs a dictionary to understand half of the words I just said.

So, Corey, glad to see you're taking everything I say and playing "I'm rubber and you're glue" with it, flipping it, twisting it, and reversing it. In some games that works. Like Uno. We're not playing Uno, though. Nope. We're engaging in blood sport of the highest magnitude for the Tag Team Championships. Now, I'm in this match because myself and my partner, the Relentless Legend that is Mr. Knuckles, have been tearing it up with the rest of B.O.B., week in, week out. Granted, I may have been out for about a month or so following High Stakes, but at least the body of work is there to say "you know what, sure, B.O.B. deserves a shot at the Tag Team Titles". So TK and myself, we made a plan, we cooked up a cool name, we practiced a little, and we got booked in a match at Snow Job.

You, on the other hand, didn't earn a single fucking thing, and shame on you for not even admitting it. You keep insisting that you're some brilliant thing, ready to rock, when you didn't even take on Cataclysm.

You were gifted a belt by someone who was busy taking on one half of Cataclysm at Snow Job.

Now, as sweet as it was of you to sort out your identity since it was pretty confusing to a ton of people, almost like you didn't even know who you'd be at this point, you really haven't demonstrated whatsoever what the fuck you're doing here and why. Congrats, I'm glad you know your own name. I'm rock solid that you may even be capable of wiping your own ass and tying your shoe laces the proper way now that your partner and Thad showed you how to do it.

Also, why the fuck do you keep bringing up crickets? Is Doc wishing upon a star so his little puppet can become a real boy or something?

Do I sound bored, or disinterested for that matter? Do I seem like anything less than Bobby Motherfucking Bourbon? Does it appear that I'm just putting on some facade?

Fact is, if circumstances hadn't so drastically changed in the past two months, you wouldn't be here.

You'd still be wiping and lacing the way Shane wanted you to.

On that note, I'm proud of you. I'm proud of the way you're taking a stand and doing the right thing, and looking to atone. Kind of like how when you were the Engineer you stood with Madison Dyson and Shane . How when you were with Lux you stood out as someone who couldn't get it done alone and needed a helping hand from some future space wizard, and how now you're standing with the aide of others yet again. Maybe, just maybe, you'll be able to stand on your own two feet one day.

Until then, look forward to learning to crash into tables, ladders, and chairs.

TK's eyes go wide.

Shit!

No shit!

So, your partner, Doctor Louis D'Ville, seems to be doing some work on saving your soul, showcasing that after all, he's not such a bad guy.

He's not such a spooky guy.

He's really just pastiche, an old fogey holding on to nightmares from the past.

Since Peter Gilmour is gone, Doc, congrats, you are now last year's model.

You want to pine for the glory days of yesteryear so much, go join the senior circuit. Hell, you reference this happened, that happened, the way things have gone, but never once have you acknowledged what will happen, and how things will shake down moving forward.

That's what you fear, after all, the unknown uncertainty of the future. Change. What me and my partner bring to the table.

So save your breath when you discuss my dragging him along, we went into this together. Thunder Knuckles and I knew we'd be teaming up way, way back in September of last year, we've been waiting for our chance to come to the forefront and shine since the list of contenders for Cataclysm was a mile long. Just because we bided our time and prepared doesn't mean we weren't going to do it, we just wanted a chance to polish and shine instead of, well, becoming just another flash in the pan.

Doc is so old he's dial-up.

Doc is so old he's disco.

Doc is so past his prime he's a square number.

Is that a math reference?

It is a math reference.

Doc is so old he remembers when racist Popeye cartoons were progressive.

Doc is so out of touch he's social distancing.

Doc is so old he sent his first text via carrier pigeon.

D'Ville is so old he's the early bird special at Sizzler.

D'Ville is so old he's seen a Twinkie go bad.

D'Ville is so old he remembers when they invented dirt.

D'Ville is so old he thinks ribbon candy is too new.

The saddest part is all this hogwash he's blurting out about getting into my head, and the history we have in the ring. It's nonexistent, and evidence of dementia. Sure, we go back, we've exchanged barbs, but for the life of me, for the life of the XWF, there sure as fuck has never been that Bourbon versus D'Ville main event dream match. I mean, it's nice of him to bring up the woulda, coulda, shoulda in regards to when I was the Universal Champion and all the shit I've done that he just, well, didn't, in the five years since I came to the XWF, but that's all hypothetical drivel from the mouth of a man who is so beholden to the past when he goes home at night he's black and white.

Don't dwell on last year, or three years ago, or that one time when, Louis. Think about one thing if we're going to consider time.

Monday.

Monday, you'll be free and clear of holding on to ten pounds of gold and leather around your waist, and you can move to Florida, drive slow, and ask your waitress how to use an iPhone.

Oh fuck!

TK looks delighted as Bobby does his thing as the Sultan of Smacktalk.

Lycanna!

I'm sure glad you embrace your sexuality and don't give a damn what anybody thinks about it.

Because darlin', once that ringbell tolls, you are fucked.

You see me as just flesh and bone. Well, I do too. I'm made from scratch and spare parts, and for what it's worth, I'm still kicking. I've had more done to me in that ring then you could ever imagine doing.

Because frankly, mostly all you imagine doing is boning your tag team partner. Now, I'm not judging, but really, is laying on your back the best way to train for a match?

Blah, blah, bliggety blah, you see someone you can do damage to. You see a person you can hurt.

Darlin', I don't have to talk about what I can do to you in that ring. You already know it. The whole fucking XWF knows it. They know that as much as you convince yourself you're prepared to do the big bamboo to the Big Bad, Big Bad of Big Bads, that I could go into the ring with a sock monkey and do the exact same shit I'm capable of doing with you. Hell, football players do the Lambeau Leap all the time when in Green Bay, I'ma do the Lambeau Launch and just toss you into the sixth row to the XWF faithful. The cool thing is, once you're in the crowd, you get to explore your sexuality even more with three deaf monks, maybe a bus driver, perhaps an elderly parrot, or whatever you want! As for respecting those who try to kick my ass, well, go ask Corey how that's working out for him.

I guess you're the beauty, even if you're a Hot Topic employee who fucked her way to the bottom and seems to enjoy getting fingerblasted by the Left Hand.

TK laughs out loud.

That leaves ole' Blood Queef as the brawn, and not much there so far as I can tell since he's barely past Cruiserweight, and not a fucking brain between the two of you.

Yo, Baphomet, come pick your kids up, the fucking daycare is closed for the day.

Marf, can you say anything of note or would it serve the Dissentients better if you just didn't talk? For starters, you sound like a massive fucking nerd, thinking that because I made a Final Fantasy reference you had to make more. Uh, fella, just because you need to follow my lead doesn't mean you have to do it poorly.

You dopey git. If you were dyslexic it'd be an upgrade.

Marf is so fucking stupid he got change for a dollar then wanted a refund.

Marf is so dumb he gets confused by the children's menu at an Applebee's.

Fucking Blood Queef over here sees a mirror and picks a fight thinking it's mocking him.

Fact is, stud, I'm over here with my PhD in ass whooping and you're repeating the first grade because you don't get that 'A' is for apple and 'B' is for Bastards.

Fuck, you think the Left Hand is a genuine threat when all it's done is scratch the crotch of Baphomet.

TK claps.

Fuck yeah!

Fuck yeah.

Bobby turns to the college lads.

Now, you boys, we're keeping your money, and don't even think about getting any drugs to rape people with, or even raping anyone, you hear?

They all nod vigorously.

"Yes!"

Yes, what?

"Yes, Mr. Bourbon! Yes, Mr. Knuckles!"

Bobby and TK nod slowly and undo the bindings around the boys.

"Thank you!"

Whatever.

Bobby goes to the door of the motel room, undoes the chain, and opens the door.

Fuck on out of here. And remember, we know who you are.

The college boys scramble out of the door.